Text Leveling System

Leepike Ridge

RDQ:	1600	Max Word/Sent	51	Total Words	4122		Diff Words	1055
Lex	840	Ave Word/.Sent	12	Hi Freq occurs	3170	76.9%	Hi freq	483	45.8%
AR	4.4	Long Sentences	22	Low Freq occurs	168	4.1%	Low freq	150	14.2%

In the history of the world there have been lots of onces and lots of times, and every time has had a once upon it. Most people will tell you that the once upon a time happened in a land far, far away, but it really depends on where you are. The once upon a time may have been just outside your back door. It may have been beneath your very feet. It might not have been in a land at all but deep in the sea's belly or bobbing around on its back.
In this case it was in a land, for the most part. If you know of a valley where a small mountain peak once shaped like a crescent moon has tumbled down and disturbed the old willow trees growing beside a slow stream, then this story does not begin far, far away, and you've probably already heard it. But if you, like me,
 
had to be told about this valley and the stream and the old, dry house chained to the top of the enormous rock beside the foot of the mountain, then this story does begin once upon a time in a land most definitely far, far away. Anyone close to this valley is sure to have heard of it.
Our story had already begun when the dust-covered delivery truck found the gravel road leading into the valley and followed it to its end beside the old willow rock. Two men got out and glared at the wooden stairs that crawled up to the house.
"Don't know what sort of people would build up there," the driver muttered.
"People who liked rocks, maybe. Or views."
"Or stairs."
Thomas Hammond, who was down by the stream with a red plastic cup full of leeches, heard them and turned to watch. They fished the large refrigerator box out of the back of the truck and strapped thick belts beneath thicker bellies, preparing to tote it to the top, two more deliverymen in a long history of delivery-men who would sweat and curse their way up the long, curving stairs. Finally, at the top, his mother greeted them and held the kitchen door open as they squeezed the box inside.
Tom had traveled around the sun eleven times when the delivery truck brought his mother's newest 
 
fridge, but a number doesn't really describe his age. His father had been gone for three years, and that made him feel older. He was the sort of boy who had many friends when he was at school, but what they knew about him was limited to his freckles, brown hair, long arms, and the clenched determination that settled onto his face when he was angry or competing. His smile, which was wide and quick, was always surprising, and his laugh, which lived in his narrow belly, was unpredictable. In games, any games, he was the first to dive for a ball, to slide on concrete, or to get a mouthful of dirt. He was taller than many of the boys in his class, but not the tallest, and he always seemed to have scabs.
Wait for the rest of the story, and you will know him better when I am done.
People thought Tom's house was chained to the top
of the rock for a reason. Some said the first house in the valley had been built down by the stream and that
the spring floods had washed it away. The second
house, they said, had been built on top of the rock, but one of the big summer thunderstorms had blown it
off. So the third house had been chained to spikes
bored deep into the stone. But no one really knew why or when the house had been built, only that it
was there now and it had stayed put through lifetimes, though occasional electrical surges were hard on
 lightbulbs and appliances. The lightbulbs were easy to replace and the appliances were usually under warranty, so Tom's mother, Elizabeth, didn't mind. She didn't have to carry the new ones up the stairs.
When the truck had gone and the dust had settled, Tom dumped forty-seven confused leeches onto the bank, where he thought the birds would find them and be pleasantly surprised. Cup in hand, he jumped through the long grass and ran up the stairs to look at his mother's shiny new refrigeration. At the top he found the box. It was lying on its side, carefully arranged and waiting for him. He bent over and looked in. A long brick of white foam filled the bottom, and a small stack of cookies sat on it, all the way at the end. Why? Tom wondered. Why does she think I still want to play in boxes?
Tom got down on his knees and retrieved the cookies. Back on his feet, he ate thoughtfully as he kicked at the fridge box and watched it skid across the rock. He kicked again, and the box tumbled down the rock and out onto the breeze. Tom watched plastic packing bags slip out, followed by the large piece of foam. The box bounced in the gravel drive and rolled into the long grass, but the foam floated nicely, clearing the first willow trees. The plastic bags disappeared.
"Hey!" his mother called from inside. "You'd better get that all picked up before some duck chokes on it! Come in and see the fridge!"
"We don't have ducks," Tom said. He stared at the last cookie in his hand, counted the chocolate chips, and then slid the whole thing into his mouth.
It was a nice fridge, too big for the corner of the kitchen where it would live out its electrically dangerous life. It was black and shiny, in sharp contrast to
the dingy kitchen, and it had water and ice in the door. The last two fridges had both had the water and ice
dispensers in the door but had never dispensed either one. They wouldn't work without a water line, and a water line had never been run.
"Well, you can head back out," Elizabeth said when the tour was over. "Try not to be too long, though.
Jeffrey is coming to dinner, and I'll need help setting." She gave him half of a wide smile. "And see if you can track down all that trash you just spread through the valley?'
She pushed her blond hair behind her ears and turned back to the pile of potato peels in the kitchen
sink. Tom stood at the door, looking back at his tall, slender mother with her hands full of potato. He usually liked to watch his mother cook, but he didn't like watching her cook for Jeffrey.
Tom found the box easily enough. He danced
around it, picked his spot, and then kicked it back toward the base of the stairs. He liked the sound it made, and he liked how far one kick could send something so big. Searching for the plastic bags and the foam, he crossed the stream on an old fallen log, wandered into the willow trees, and walked from canopy to canopy, pushing his way through the curtains formed by the weeping branches. Occasionally he could see his house, perched on top of the rock, and occasionally the whole world would disappear and he would be left with nothing but the trunk and branches of a willow and a nest full of noisy birds hanging out over the slow water.
It was in one of these willow worlds that he found the foam. It had landed high up in the tree, and never had Tom seen anything that seemed so out of place, unless he counted seeing Jeffrey at his own dining room table, sitting in his father's chair. Tom tried not to think of Jeffrey or the way he smiled at his mother. He tried hard not to be angry with his mother for smiling back. Instead, he focused on finding rocks he could throw at the foam.
When he had collected a small pile, he began to assault the large foam brick from within the tree. Or at least he tried. A vertical throw is difficult enough without a tangled canopy of branches getting in the way. Tom would lean as far back as his balance would allow, cock his hand low to the earth, and then, starting with his legs and stomach, he would uncoil, bringing his arm around as hard as he could. The rock would rattle in the branches, and Tom would duck and dart around, trying to avoid getting hit, until it returned to the soft earth with a slap or to the muddy water with a plop.
He was on his second pile of rocks, and his shoulder was beginning to ache, when he finally hit the white slab. The rock bounced off a branch on the way back down and hit him on the arm, but Tom didn't mind. The foam slid down the willow branches like a sled. It slowed, then tripped free and spun out into the water.
Nearly an hour passed, and Tom didn't know it. He traveled two hundred yards beside the stream, assaulting the floating foam with clods, rocks, branches, and mud. At times, he approached the water's edge with a slick lump of willow wood and hurled it at the white craft, sending the foam into the reeds with the splash when it fell short. Sometimes he retreated and bombarded the thing from a distance, assigning the foam a variety of villainous passengers, most of whom drowned.
Tom had almost rounded the bend in the valley when he saw the dust trail of what he knew must be Jeffrey's little car. He then noticed the time and the
grime on his hands, and he wondered if he'd heard his mother yelling for him a little while before. He couldn't be quite sure.
The foam ended up tucked beneath a willow tree, and Tom, breathing heavily, met Jeffrey at the bottom of the stairs. Tom had every intention of being polite. At least, he wasn't planning on calling the man any names.
"You've been playing hard," Jeffrey said, and reached out to touch Tom's head. Tom ducked and then straightened up slowly, looking Jeffrey in the eye.
"What game was it?" Jeffrey asked.
"Nothing," Tom said, and he stepped around him and hurried up the stairs. His mother met him at the top. She was smiling, but Tom saw her glance at his hands and sweaty hair.
"Wash up," she said. "I called for you."
"Sorry," he murmured.
"Hello, Jeffrey." The cheerfulness in her voice bothered Tom. "You got a haircut!"
"I got 'em all cut," Jeffrey said. But Tom heard nothing else because he shut the kitchen door behind him.
Everyone said Jeffrey was a nice man. He was also tall, with lanky limbs and a saggy middle. Worse than that, he had a saggy chest and wore unbuttoned polo shirts. He always smiled, regardless of the situation, and taught fourth grade at Tom's school. He drove a little green car the color of dry toothpaste. To Tom, he had been Mr. Veatch until this summer, when suddenly he had begun dropping by (from his house near school, about twenty miles away) and wanting to be called Jeffrey. As far as Tom was concerned, having to call him Jeffrey was just one step closer to having to call him Dad.
Over dinner, Jeffrey smiled and nodded. He commented on the potatoes. He said he'd spent his day at the library reading up on local history. He thought the nice weather was due to end and wouldn't last through the rest of the weekend. He had heard storms were on the way for Sunday, Monday at the latest. Then he
turned to Tom.
"What have you been up to today?" Jeffrey asked. He was chewing while he talked. I don't even do that, Tom thought. He didn't look up. He was sculpting his
potatoes.
"Thomas has been playing with the box from the new refrigerator," his mother answered.
Tom's head snapped up, and he felt his teeth
squeak.
"Was he, Elizabeth?" Jeffrey asked. "Was he? Oh, I remember those years. One time, I managed to convince my parents to let me save a box from one of our moves we were always moving and I took all sorts of things in there and had them all arranged like I was selling them. I must have played store in that box for a week before it finally collapsed after a rain."
Tom was incredulous. This man was admitting to having played store in a box for nearly a week. Tom stared at Jeffrey's long head with its curly, receding hair and the small flap of skinny-man fat that hung beneath his chin.
"I did all sorts of things with boxes," Jeffrey continued. Now Tom was staring at his lips, two chapped leeches that belonged in a cup or, better yet, on the bank waiting for the birds. Except the birds would probably be too grossed out to touch them.
Jeffrey was still talking. "It's healthy for a young boy to use his imagination. I often think that those childish games are what made me what I am today. I remember using one box for a pet store for all my stuffed animals, and another time I missed school so much over a summer vacation that I played classroom almost every day. But that wasn't actually with a box. I did that with the blankets on my bed."
"Well," Elizabeth said. She put her elbows on the table, her chin in her hands, and smiled. "I think Thomas was playing a cruder game. I sent him to pick up all the trash that had blown off the rock, and he ended up playing war with a piece of Styrofoam in the creek."
"I wasn't playing war," Tom said. Still, he thought, it was better than selling stuffed animals out of a box. "You were throwing things at it."
"I was throwing things at it. I wasn't playing war."
Elizabeth smiled. "I opened the window, and I could hear you making all the same noises you make when you play with your army men."
Tom went red on the outside. Inside, he went black. "I," he said, and arched his eyebrows into his hair, "do not play with army men."
Jeffrey was laughing. "Oh, you don't need to be embarrassed," he said. "It's natural that a boy your age should still be playing with toys. Even war though a preoccupation with that particular game could be unhealthy."
Tom stood up.
His mother stopped smiling. "Tom?" she said. A thousand thoughts poured through Tom's head. One hundred things to say. He felt his face relax and his jaw pop, creep forward, and lock. Tom stared at Jeffrey through half-lidded eyes and knew that, just like at school, he wouldn't say anything. Then, to his surprise, his mouth opened.
"Don't ever touch my mother," he said, and he found himself outside. The screen door banged behind him. Tom stood on the rock and looked around. His
impulse was to go down to the creek and find the piece of packing foam, but that was not an option. He would not be seen with the foam again. He walked to the back corner of the house and stared at the chains that anchored it. Two chains came off the corner, one at the base and the other higher up, near the edge of the roof. Both were attached to the same spike in the rock. After a balancing act, a slip, and some scrambling, Tom was on the roof. A few seconds later he was on the peak, then sitting on the chimney. He did not intend to move until the dust had settled behind Jeffrey Veatch's car, if then.
It didn't take long. Tom sat on the chimney on the house on the enormous rock and overlooked his valley. He stared down at the tops of willow trees and at the stream. He looked at the meadow grass on the other side, and he waited. One solitary mud hen moved in and out of reeds along the water. It isn't a duck, Tom told himself. And it wouldn't try to eat a plastic bag. Then the kitchen door opened, and Tom stopped overlooking and began over listening.
"Well, Elizabeth," Jeffrey said, "I'll leave you to think over what I've offered."
"You don't need to go because of Tom." She didn't sound happy. Tom thought she sounded like her arms were crossed.
"I want to give him a little space for now. Don't be too hard on him. It's normal. He doesn't really dislike me. His anger is with himself."
Elizabeth and Jeffrey ended the conversation with pleasantries, and Tom watched Jeffrey's back descend over the edge of the rock. When the little car began spreading its dust trail, Tom's mother spoke.
"Thomas," she said quietly. "You get off the roof right now. You know what I've said about climbing up there.'
Tom held his breath and didn't say anything. His mother stepped into view. Her hands were on her hips, and her eyebrows were up. "Do you think I can't hear something your size slipping around on the roof?"
"Did he know?" Tom asked.
"Well, I thought he did,' his mother answered. "It was hard not to notice, but I doubt he'd have said what he did if he knew you were listening. You know, Tom, I don't know what makes you do it. Jeffrey likes you."
"He wants to marry you," Tom said.
"I know. He told me."
"What?" Tom caught himself on the chimney. "What did you tell him?"
"Come down, and we'll talk about it."
"I'm not coming down until you tell me what you said."
Elizabeth sighed. "I told him I would think about it. He's coming back tomorrow."
"Why?"
"To hear my answer. Now come down. You should still eat something." Then Elizabeth stepped back inside and shut the door behind her.
When Tom stepped into the house, she was sitting at the table waiting for him, and she had on her determined look. Her fingers were moving, flexing, and drumming on the tabletop. Otherwise, she sat perfectly still.
"Thomas, come sit down."
Tom did.
"Tomorrow," she continued, "you will apologize to Mr. Veatch."
"Jeffrey," Tom said.
"Jeffrey," she said. "Jeffrey wants to try to get to know you better. He wants to play with you down by the creek. You will be polite, and you will look him in the eye when you answer his questions."
"I'll throw up if you marry him," Tom said quietly. Elizabeth leaned forward. "And I'll have you know something else, Thomas Hammond. I have not decided what I'm going to say to Mr. Veatch tomorrow, but I'm certainly not going to make my decision based on whether or not you are misbehaving."
Eventually, somehow, the evening ended. Dishes were done. The house was tidied. No one was doing much talking. Tom stared at a book for a while. Then he stared at the floor, and then at a couch cushion. At some point his mother kissed him, and when he was lying in bed he knew that he had brushed his teeth because he could taste it, but he couldn't remember doing any actual brushing.
He didn't do any sleeping.
The night was not unusual for the summertime.
Tom's window was open, and occasionally a breeze that had stumbled between the two ridges and into the
valley would come rolling along, billowing Tom's curtains and rocking the house ever so slightly. Tom listened to the quietly straining chains and felt the house shiver.
He couldn't stop thinking about Jeffrey. He knew that his mother would say no. At least, he knew that
she should say no. He thought about playing with
Jeffrey by the creek. Maybe he would fall in. The piece of foam needed to be gone. There should be no sign
that it ever existed. He would sit on the bank and watch Jeffrey get leeches when he waded in the water. If he waded in the water, which he probably wouldn't. He should get rid of the foam.
Tom pulled on his sneakers without socks and grabbed a sweatshirt from his closet. He knew that his mother would hear the creaks in the hall. They were impossible to get around, so he went to the window. It was not a new route for him, and a moment later he
stood on the rock in the warm summer air, pushed by one of the rolling breezes. The moon was up, painting the world silver, making things look just a little more alive.
Tom stared out at the shaggy, moonlit willow heads, and then his feet found the stairs.
After a few mouthfuls of moon-flavored air, even the stubbornly drowsy can find themselves wide-eyed. Tom was hardly drowsy, and he took more than a few mouthfuls. By the time he had reached the base of the rock, his senses were heightened nearly to the point of bursting. All the normal noises of life were gone, leaving behind the secretive sounds, the shy sounds, the whispers and conversations of moss disputing with grass over some soft piece of earth, or the hummingbirds snoring. Tom could hear his toe move in his shoe and willow leaves brushing against each other fifty yards away. He heard a water rat click its teeth, though he hardly knew what it was. He felt as loud as thunder when he walked, so he broke into a run, jumping in the tall grass and pushing his way beneath the weeping willows.
Elizabeth was not asleep either. She had heard Tom stirring in his room, but she hadn't heard him in the hall, so she didn't get out of bed. She was thinking. Or at least she was trying to make herself think.
Three years without the husband she loved had begun to wear her down. Tom needed a dad. Jeffrey liked her. Jeffrey even liked Tom. Tom hated Jeffrey.
"Tom can just grow up," she said out loud. She shivered and pulled the blankets up over her head.
Tom had planned on being angry. He'd intended to think dark thoughts out in the night, but the night wouldn't let him. The earth smelled pleasant, and the air, freshly exhaled by the grass and trees, filled his chest. He found the slab of foam under the dark willow belly where he had stored it and tossed it into the water, still beneath the tree.
Willow trees are fond of water, and weeping willows love to dip their fingers. Their branches grow thickest on the waterfront, and they frequently reach the bottom of whatever stream or pond they lean toward.
Tom's foam floated toward the ring of branches draped in the stream and then floated back, too light to push through them. Tom stood and stared at the refrigerator-length piece of foam, and he wondered.
He stopped wondering, and he tested. He put his foot on the foam. Then he squatted down and knelt on it.
It still floated. He pushed off the mud bank and drifted toward the leafy ring. He reached out for the branches
and quickly dropped onto his belly when the raft rocked and reeled. The leaves parted in front of him as he left his harbor and entered the moonlight.
Tom floated across the stream and pushed off of a large rock. He ran his hands along the bank until he
found a stick large enough and began steering himself
a course, pushing off of reeds and occasional rocks. His neck grew sore looking up while on his belly, so he
got onto his knees but couldn't get comfortable, over-
balanced, and nearly fell in. Finally, after a very cautious operation, he managed to lie on his back with his
head upstream. His hood was up and his hands were in the pouch of his sweatshirt, though one still gripped his stick. The heels of his shoes skimmed the water's surface.
Tom stared at the stars and the moon and felt as if he'd been awake forever, watching enormous worlds of flame, tiny in the distance, travel through the sky. But then he remembered that we are the ones doing the traveling. And that there were as many stars beneath him as there were above. His mind slowed down as he pictured himself floating above an upside-down sky full of stars.

Subjective Criteria

Illustrations: No support

Dialog: Multiple speakers

Dialog: Broken dialogue

Dialog: Unlabeled Speaker

Vocabulary: Some difficult words

Language: Many descriptive words

Sentences: Some Long/Complex

Text structure: Story/Poem

Inferences: Some implications

Complexity: Several ideas - closely related

Concepts: Concrete/Simple Social

Chapters

Sequence of Events: Chronological

Features

Character traits

Integral Setting

Complex Problem/Solution

Simple Plot

Unusual use of vocabulary

Topic

Treasures

Challenges

Actions

Danger

Lost

Problem Solving

Greed

Underground

Caves

Low Frequency Words

ache	actual	admitting	anchored	appliances
approached	arched	assault	assaulting	assigning
billowing	bombarded	cautious	chained	chapped
cheerfulness	chokes	clods	collected	competing
concerned	concrete	contrast	conversation	conversations
crescent	cruder	curse	curtains	curving
cushion	decision	deliverymen	descend	determination
determined	dingy	dislike	dispensed	dispensers
disputing	disturbed	doubt	drowned	electrical
electrically	embarrassed	eventually	exhaled	eyed
flexing	freckles	frequently	fridges	glance
glared	gravel	gripped	grossed	harbor
healthy	heavily	heightened	hurled	imagination
impulse	incredulous	intend	intended	intention
knelt	lanky	lidded	lifetimes	lightbulbs
meadow	misbehaving	moonlight	moonlit	mouthful
mouthfuls	murmured	muttered	occasional	occasionally
onces	operation	option	otherwise	overlooked
parted	particular	passengers	perched	pictured
pleasant	pleasantly	pleasantries	polo	pouch
preoccupation	receding	reeds	reeled	refrigeration
refrigerator	retrieved	ridges	rounded	route
saggy	scrambling	sculpting	secretive	shaggy
situation	skimmed	slender	solitary	spike
squatted	stirring	straightened	stubbornly	styrofoam
surges	sweat	sweatshirt	tabletop	tangled
thoughtfully	thunderstorms	tidied	tote	tour
unbuttoned	uncoil	unhealthy	unpredictable	upstream
variety	veatch	veatch's	vertical	views
villainous	wandered	warranty	waterfront	whispers